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Memories about bike riding are a mixed lot.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of the family. I was also born during WWII. The only uncle not yet enlisted (Bill Trimpe) was my godfather, right before becoming 18 and enlisting.
The only other male I saw for several years was my paternal grandfather (Joseph Kuebbing). My other grandfather had died of cancer a number of years before.
One of my mother's sisters, Gertrude, was a successful business woman in the job placement industry. She was very generous but had interesting buying habits. I know them as "Penny wise and pound foolish." She also had a native optimism that served her well in her work.
So when she bought the first bicycle for a tall, not small, child, she went for the top of the line and for a bike I "could grow into". Just as the cars made right after the war were large and heavy, with plenty of steel from an industry with more capacity than demand, I got the "tank" version of a bike. At first I couldn't lift it. Then after I could lift it, I couldn't mount it without an adult holding it up.
Finally I got to an age where I could lift it, mount it and my legs reached the pedals. Unfortunately I lived on a hill (Highland Ave), near the bottom. Gravity would start the bike rolling. After 100' I was at the bottom. The bike was too heavy for me to pedal it back up either side of the hill. So if I wanted to endure the taunts of the neighborhood kids, I would walk up one of the hills for another ride down.
I can't remember what year I was able to ride with ease, but by then I didn't care.
